


Don't Stop Me Now

by Snuggle_Puff



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Anthea knows all, Blow Jobs, Bottom Mycroft Holmes, Drag Queens, Eventual Smut, First Kiss, First Time, Happy Ending, Homophobic Language, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, POV Greg Lestrade, Pining Greg Lestrade, Secrets, Top Greg Lestrade, these boys talk too damn much
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-31
Updated: 2020-02-24
Packaged: 2021-02-26 10:17:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 15,191
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22496299
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Snuggle_Puff/pseuds/Snuggle_Puff
Summary: Greg Lestrade has important plans that have been thwarted yet again by Sherlock Holmes. His big brother Mycroft, for whom Greg has been harbouring feelings for years, comes to his rescue.
Relationships: Mycroft Holmes & Greg Lestrade, Mycroft Holmes/Greg Lestrade
Comments: 64
Kudos: 178





	1. Chapter One

Greg slouched down in the uncomfortable plastic chair, staring at the white tiled hospital wall across from him, trying his best to find a comfortable position as he waited for Sherlock to be released. He didn’t have the patience to deal with him tonight. He had plans - very important plans; plans that he had been looking forward to for a very long time. Sitting alone in a hospital hallway, babysitting Sherlock while John was out of town was not part of those plans.

The doctors had let him know that Sherlock would be released soon but that he would need assistance getting home. Without John around, it looked like Greg’s plans were scrapped as the task fell to him instead.

Sherlock had been working a case with him that day and had managed to get away from him as they chased after their suspect; who had, in turn, managed to surprise the consulting detective. The infuriating man had gotten knocked out by the suspect. When Greg had finally caught up to them, he found the brute standing over the unconscious Sherlock, ready to inflict even worse damage with a very heavy looking set of work boots.

He opened his eyes and sighed as he heard Sherlock berating yet another poor nurse for simply trying to take his vitals, the third since he had come around about a half hour earlier.

“You insipid fool! How can you fail so miserably at something as simple as registering my blood pressure? Did you even attend nursing school, or did you simply wander in off the streets, steal a set of scrubs and start poking random strangers for your amusement?”

“Sherlock!” He warned loudly from the hallway. He grabbed his bag, got up and turned into the room. The young nurse fumbled with the pressure cuff and Greg offered him a sympathetic look.

“Lestrade, really! This is utterly ridiculous! I am perfectly fine. Why am I still here?”

He dropped his bag near the door, before walking over the Sherlock’s bed; the nurse practically running out while he had the chance, “Because you decided to go off without me and get yourself knocked out by the big mean man who didn’t feel like getting arrested tonight. And now all these nice doctors and nurses are trying to make you all better again.” He gave Sherlock a tiny patronizing pat on his shoulder as he spoke. If he was going to act like a child, Greg would at least gain some small satisfaction by talking to him like one.

“I have been concussed on numerous occasions, as you are well aware, and I am more than capable of recuperating at home rather than in this infuriating den of imbeciles!”

“Such big words for someone who’s just angry cause he isn’t getting what he wants. Sherlock, I don’t want to be here anymore than you do, but you woke up not even an hour ago. They have to check and make sure you don’t have any other injuries.”

“Graham, I have to get away from this dreadful place! You can smuggle me out! Just take a set of scrubs from the supply closet, and I can slip past them, and we could take your car to Baker Street. No one would ever know.”

“Greg… it’s Greg, you know this, you son of a…” He scrubbed his hand over his face in frustration, “And no Sherlock, I am not smuggling you out, the doctors haven’t released you yet. I promise you that it won’t be much longer. And ya know, in case you forget, I _am _an officer of the law, that certainly wouldn’t look the best - smuggling a patient out of the hospital, now would it?” Sherlock simply huffed in annoyance, “Besides, I know you think they’re all idiots, but even so, I think they’d notice you gone, since they have you hooked up to about a thousand little monitors. Anyway, I couldn’t help you much anyway, my car’s at home.”

“Then why the hell are you even here?”

“Because I can have a unit come to take us to Baker Street as soon as you’re released.” He walked over to the window, staring out at the view, again, trying to calm himself.

“You don’t have to be here for that, Lestrade. I do know my way home. It’s obvious that you have other plans this evening,” gesturing toward the small duffle bag that Greg had dropped by the door, “Why don’t you go run off to them.” Greg tensed, praying that Sherlock wouldn’t try to deduce exactly what those plans may be.

Greg had taken every precaution he could think of to hide what he had planned for the night, hating that he even had his duffle with him. He had only brought it with the hope that he’d still be able to see to those plans, though it certainly looked unlikely at this point. He turned slowly, but thankfully Sherlock wasn’t looking at him. It was likely that Greg’s plans didn’t register high enough in the detective’s priorities to care, but he knew that if Sherlock had even seen him tense up, he’d have taken that as an invitation to use all his deductive prowess to find out.

“And have you run off as soon as I soon as I have my back turned? I don’t think so, John would have my head.”

Greg looked around the room to see what awful sitting accommodations the room had for him when he heard Sherlock huff louder than normal. “Please tell me you did not call him, Lestrade.”

Greg turned around, “Who, John? Of course, I did. He’s your emergency contact.”

“No, _him._” Sherlock gestured vaguely towards the door.

“What the hell are you on about?” but then Greg stopped and listened, his heart racing as he heard the tell-tale _step step tap, step step tap _of the elder Holmes and his ever present brolly coming down the hallway.

Greg wished he had at least taken a second in the bathroom to clean himself up a bit; smooth his hair down, wipe the grime off his face, anything. He knew he looked a disaster after the chase and tussle with the suspect and of course, of all people, Mycroft Holmes would be the next one to see him like that.

***

Greg had been intrigued by Mycroft the moment he had met the man. He could’ve hardly believed that the distinguished, posh gentleman with an old-fashioned umbrella draped over the arm of his pristine three-piece suit, standing in his station, could in any way be related to the young junkie in the grubby jeans and threadbare jacket he had arrested earlier in the night. The lanky strung-out kid had come storming onto his crime scene, spouting some ridiculous theory about how they were going to arrest the wrong man. He frantically paced the scene, over and over stating that it had been the wife instead who had committed the murder he was investigating, until Greg had had no choice but to put him in the back of his car and take him down to the station.

Mycroft had stood there, unnaturally stiff, not a trace of emotion on his face as Sherlock had been brought out. He stood to the side as the young man’s possession were handed back to him. Greg thought he caught a brief look of sadness reach the older man’s eyes, but it was gone so quick he told himself that he had imagined it.

Before they left, Sherlock turned to him. “I watched you at that crime scene. You are not as insufferable an idiot as the rest of them. Look in the shed in their garden, that is the wife’s pottery workshop. You should find the necessary evidence for her motive there; I believe it will likely be where she stores her glazes.” He started to turn away, then added, “Also, check for a crawlspace under the back porch as well.” With that he turned and left.

Mycroft turned to him as well, extending a business card, “Detective Inspector, here is my card. If Sherlock should ever bother you again, you may contact me directly.” A quick nod, and the man turned and walked away.

Greg, against his better judgement but intrigued nonetheless, found himself doing exactly what Sherlock had suggested. Amongst the shelf of glazes and paints in the wife’s workshop, he found evidence that the wife was the one having an affair with the victim, not the husband. There were notes exchanged showing that the victim had plans to disclose all to the husband. And laying in a shallow grave under the back porch of their quaint suburban home, Greg found the murder weapon; a butcher’s knife, still covered in the victim’s dried blood. Later, of course, it was the wife’s fingerprints found on the knife, and it was the wife who would come to be arrested and found guilty of the crime.

Greg knew that he would have arrested the wrong man if it had not been for Sherlock. He wanted to thank the young man, but only had Mycroft’s information. Greg called and before it was all over, he found himself agreeing to let Sherlock assist with cases as soon as he was out of the rehab facility that Mycroft had placed him in.

The arrangement had worked better than Greg could’ve thought possible, especially after John arrived to calm Sherlock’s darker moods. The arrangement had the bonus of continued contact with Mycroft. For the first year or two, Greg was able to convince himself that he was simply intrigued by the man because of how radically different he was from anyone Greg had ever known before. But as his marriage fell apart, he found himself finally able to see it for what it was.

He had fallen hard for the man.

He could no longer contain the thrill he felt when the elder Holmes brother mysteriously arrived at crime scenes, checking in on Sherlock. He grinned when the two sniped at each other, seeing the upper-crust posh talk for what it was; plain and simple sibling rivalry. His heart fluttered with affection when he caught the expression on Mycroft’s face when he regarded his brother when Sherlock wasn’t looking - love.

Through that hard, complacent facade that British Government showed, Greg could see a man who cared greatly for his infuriating brother. He found himself watching Mycroft whenever possible, waiting to catch the man underneath it all. And worse... wishing that someday, somehow… some fraction of that caring expression could be directed his way.

***

So now, Greg stood in Sherlock’s hospital room, covered in dirt, completely disheveled after a fight in an alleyway with an ex-boxer turned thief, the scruff of a five o’clock shadow on his face, listening as Mycroft made his way down the hallway toward Sherlock’s room.

“No Sherlock, I didn’t. Ya know, not everything is a conspiracy against you, mate.”

Even as the words left his mouth, he had to laugh to himself. He knew in this case, it actually was a bit of a conspiracy, really. He had often wondered; how many resources did Mycroft have at his disposal to keep tabs on his brother?

Mycroft finally stood in the doorway looking at Sherlock, "Dear brother, really? When will you learn not to run off like this when our ever-vigilant Dr. Watson isn't here to trail behind you, keeping you from making ridiculously horrible decisions?"

Sherlock's expression was filled with his normal haughtiness, until the mention of John’s name. Greg caught the flicker of contempt in his eye at Mycroft's dig.

"John is my partner; not my guard dog, my bodyguard, nor my nanny as you both constantly seem to imply. He does not ‘trail behind’ me."

"No, I know that, Sherlock, but I hate to tell you,” Greg interjected, “I'm staying here, watching your arse, not just because I actually give a shite that you make it home ok, but because I don't want to be any more of John's target than I already am. He was a tad short with me on the phone as it is. I have other places I'd much rather be, thank you very much."

Greg stopped himself before he said anymore.

Mycroft fixed him with one of his enigmatic looks. When he asked Greg to join him in the hallway, he cringed, suspecting he had said too much.

“Detective Inspector, Sherlock should not be your burden. You have done more than enough already, staying with him this evening. As you seem to have plans that he has yet again infringed upon, I can arrange for Anthea to stay with him. We can have a car brought around to take you wherever you wish. John is on his way. I contacted him immediately after hearing of Sherlock’s hospitalization. Though it seems I was not the first to let him know,” he said with a small smile that Greg soaked up. “We have procured him swift travel, and he will be here to see Sherlock home.”

“Are you sure? I’d really hate to impose on you or Anthea.”

“Yes, of course, Lestrade. She is very well-compensated, and she is well-trained as my assistant. This would certainly not be the first time she has been charged with minding him. She will not let him out of her sight until he has been properly discharged and is under Dr. Watson’s care.”

“Well then sure, that would be great, really. Thanks.”

They walked back into the room, and Mycroft turned to his assistant. “Anthea, I would ask that you please stay with my dear brother until John arrives. Also, if you could please have Everett bring one of the spare cars around for the Detective Inspector.” Greg laughed at the audible harumph coming from Sherlock. The temperamental genius really did look like a grumpy toddler; arms crossed and all, practically pouting at everyone in the room.

Mycroft turned to Gregory, “Alas, I must be off, I do have plans of my own this evening. Thank you again, Lestrade, for keeping watch over Sherlock.”

He nodded to Anthea, who gave him a slight grin for the one brief moment she looked up from her phone. Greg would never be able to figure that woman out.

Greg turned his attention back to Sherlock, stewing as ever in his hospital bed.

"Really Lestrade? You're going to hand me off to her like some divorced father at the end of his visitation weekend?

“Well, when you act like a brat…”

“Detective Inspector Lestrade,” Anthea interrupted. “Your driver will be here for you momentarily, if you would like to make your way to the front entrance, Sir." She planted herself in a chair. Sherlock opened his mouth to say something to her, but she simply looked up from her phone and glared. He quickly shut his mouth and huffed.

Greg gathered his things, including his bag, nodded a goodbye to Anthea and Sherlock, and headed out. He phoned the station on his way down the stairs, letting them know that a car was no longer needed. When he found himself at the entrance to the hospital, a car was already waiting for him, making him wonder again about the resources at Mycroft’s disposal, and just how many cars Mycroft had waiting all over the city, ready to be called upon.

He climbed in and gave the driver the address. He sat back and watched the city pass by, letting himself finally relax after such a ridiculous day.

Greg didn’t continue the previous thought much, but if he had, he would have probably realized that yes, there were a fleet of cars available for Anthea to call upon for her boss at any time. He would have perhaps remembered the innumerable times that one of Mycroft’s anonymous black vehicles showed up within minutes of being summoned.

He would’ve maybe also realized that with Anthea being Mycroft’s assistant and the one who usually did the summoning that she would also be notified when an address was input into those cars’ navigational systems.

As Anthea sat in Sherlock’s hospital room, she read off the address that had just dropped into her notifications, and her eyes went wide with a rare show of surprise before a slow grin spread across her face. She debated for a moment whether to alert Mycroft but decided against it.

After all, they were going to the same place.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to [Paia Loves Pie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Paia_Loves_Pie) for her wonderful plot bunnies, including one involving Greg and Mycroft secretly dancing drag on the weekends! Also thank you to [Bookjunkiecat](https://archiveofourown.org/users/bookjunkiecat)for suggesting that I adopt this one and for beta'ing for me!


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter does contain very brief use of homophobic language.

Greg felt the tension start to leave his body as soon as the car slipped into London traffic, finally on his way. He pulled his duffle bag onto the seat next to him, carefully holding on to the straps, reining in the desire to open it and check it’s contents one more time. He had a very paranoid (and very accurate) feeling that there were cameras inside the car, and he did not need Mycroft Holmes or his army of minions knowing what he had in his bag. 

He had only ever let one person from “The Real World” know the contents of the large black and green bag that he had ever since his Uni days. His ex-wife Cynthia had found it, lingering in the attic, stored with all the other evidence of his life before he had met her. She had never been especially interested in his things before, so he had never thought to hide it. 

It’s contents had raised questions; questions that lead to revelations; revelations that led to accusations. Accusations that were altogether false and disgusting in Greg’s eyes. She would eventually use its contents against him in their divorce, as if her myriad of extra-marital affairs had nothing to do with the destruction of their marriage.

Inside that bag were the tools Greg needed for the one thing that gave him any real joy anymore. Tools that included paints, pigments, brushes, and sponges; but he was no painter.

Unbeknownst to anyone but her, Greg was a Drag Queen.

***

It had started out simply enough. Greg was convinced to do a charity drag show with some of his mates in Uni, but what had started out as a joke had changed his life. He was good at it, pulling in the most money that night. But more surprisingly, he found he had loved doing it. He had always loved dancing, spending countless weekends at the clubs with his friends til the wee hours of the morning. Dancing on the stage, in front of an audience gave him a rush he had never felt before, even on the best of nights on the dancefloor. 

And what’s more, and what caused him several sleepless nights afterwards, was how right he had felt up on the stage in all the makeup and finery. Taking on that persona allowed him a freedom he had never felt before. He was allowed to be whoever he wanted, he could be silly and flirty, be strong and seductive - he could play.

He could be the person he was too scared to be in the everyday world. 

Just that one night’s performance had radically changed how he had thought of himself. He found himself seeking out the drag bars, hiding in the corners, entranced by the performers, until one night he finally found the courage to speak to a beautiful glittery Queen after her performance. She was patient; answering his questions about how she started, how she learned the makeup. He soaked it all in, until eventually he asked how he could get started, if he were interested.

What surprised him most, when he thought about the conversation later that night, alone in his bed, was not only how intrigued he was at the idea of actually trying drag for real, but when he realized how attractive he had found the Queen at the bar. He had known, though he had never spoken it aloud, that he was bisexual. He knew that what he felt when looking at an attractive man was more than simple objective awareness. He had no delusions that it wasn’t a man under the makeup. He knew what was under the dress. But it was her confidence, her grace that attracted him.

With her help, he entered that world, and in short order he made his way through the ranks. He was well on his way to becoming a star, but struggled constantly to keep his social life secret from his family and uni mates. While his weekends were spent in gay bars and cabarets, his week was spent with a conservative family whose tolerance of anyone unlike themselves was minimal at best. When he had met his ex-wife Cynthia, he couldn’t take the pressure any longer, and he took the easier path - he walked away from the lights, the makeup, the crowd, and went with the wife, the pretty house, the good reliable job. 

But she had found his old kit, and confronted him. Finding no lie convincing enough, he told her the truth. He was proud of who he had been - a Queen regal and proud; he had been admired by the crowds. But as he told the one person who was supposed to love him through everything, the woman who was supposed to understand him more than any other person on Earth, to know him better than anyone, her disgust became immediately apparent and only grew as he spoke. What was once pride to him was vile and nasty in her eyes, an abomination.

When, in the heat of the arguement, he admitted that, yes he had been with men before he had met her; that he was in fact, bisexual; her face looked like he had just confessed to drowning children in his spare time. 

She was cruel in her reaction, calling him all manner of vile names. 

Faggot

Cocksucker

Paedophile

She screamed for him to leave, and rather face her sickened judgmental face, he did.

He knew his marriage had been long over before this; she had been unfaithful more times than he cared to know about. He was almost thankful that it was finally over, if only her words hadn’t cut him so completely. Greg let his own self-doubt drown him. Others may have seen him as strong and confident, but he had always felt a fake - a facade of a man. He had been weak by marrying Cynthia in the first place, taking the easy path. Not strong enough to have fought for what he truly wanted back then, so he accepted whatever she threw at him as his own penance.

Many long empty nights were spent alone in a sad flat he had found after she had thrown him out. But then a friend offered a piece of advice that stuck - Remember what brought him joy before Cynthia. All he could think about was standing on stage, the spotlight on him, dancing for an audience. He remembered the long-lost confidence drag had once given him.

With a small touch of that former confidence, he reached out to an old friend still in the game, looking for a way back in. After several long talks and a rather humbling audition, he was given a chance at one of the smaller clubs, and the crowd loved him. Sparked life back into the old man.

He was introduced to a club owner, Damon, who had a reputation for discretion. Greg only performed under his pseudonym, never appearing out of face to the public. The owner knew Greg’s story, and knew how unfairly that he would be compromised if his identity went public but still respected him enough to let him follow his dream. 

***

As the lights of London streamed past him, Greg texted ahead to his old friend to let him know that he was on his way. Damon had secured ways that Greg could enter and exit the club without being seen but Greg didn’t want to cause alarm by showing up at one of the back entrances unannounced.

As they made their way through the traffic, Greg felt a sense of contentment wash over him. Due to work, and all the rest of life’s responsibilities, he didn’t have the opportunity to perform as often as he’d like. For Mycroft to waltz in and save him was a miracle. 

Mycroft. 

Greg never once regretted that he had found a way back to performing, but he often wondered what the people in his life would think if they knew what he did in his rare spare time. 

Greg let his mind drift to the mysterious object of his (unrequited) affection. He thought of Mycroft, in his bespoke suits, and what he would think if he were to see the Detective Inspector on the stage. Would he be disgusted or could, by some miracle, he want to see Greg as he performed? Greg had fantasized about it often enough - performing for only Mycroft’s eyes. Dancing, teasing, stripping away until he laid bare before the refined man. Could there be a side to Mycroft that he didn’t show to the world, which could want that? 

Greg was pulled out of his thoughts as they arrived at the club. He thanked the driver but waited until he drove off before heading around to a small door in the alley. He knocked and waited. The door cracked open after a moment and Greg was greeted by Damon’s big beautiful grin before being pulled inside. They slipped down the back hallways to Greg’s dressing room, an old storage room barely bigger than a closet that had been repurposed to give him the needed privacy.

Greg gave Damon his thanks and turned into the room. Shutting the door, he let out a great sigh as he hung his coat up. He had brought his costume and wig over the day before, and they had already been set out for him. He set his bag on the table, finally pulling it open to take out his makeup and tools, quickly set everything up. 

With everything organized, he went over to the sink in the corner and washed the grime of the day off his face and shaved off the five o’clock shadow that crept across his features. After a quick touch of moisturizer, he sat back at the small vanity, staring at the old man looking back at him. He reached deep in the side pocket of his bag and pulled out an old, stale pack of cigarettes. He took out one, lit it and leaned back in his chair, drawing a deep drag of smoke into his lungs. 

He was exhausted - with work, with chasing after Sherlock, with worrying about the git while he lay in hospital. He still felt that twinge of embarrassment again, thinking of Mycroft seeing him like that. He should be used to it by now. Most contact he had with Mycroft was through or because of Sherlock, so there was always going to be a high likelihood of being filthy, injured, or reminded of how massive of an idiot he was compared to the Holmes’ brothers.

You know, all the things you want your crush to see.

He finally reached the end of the cigarette, and took the last drag with eyes closed, as was his tradition. He let the last of the smoke spill from his lips and let everything else go as well. He pushed away thoughts of the case, Sherlock, even Mycroft. When he opened his eyes, gone was the tired old man, and now he faced the blank canvas of his face, waiting to become Bellini Rebellion, the Queen.

He was short on time, but after how long Greg had been doing this, he could throw on Face quickly. He was by no means a pageant Queen, and while he really only had the time to perform once a month or so, he knew how to make himself look good.

He quickly threw on his base and began contouring his face to hide his masculine lines. Bellini, his Queen persona was a punk; a girl who’s been fighting her whole life, but underneath it all, she was a lady. Her makeup was bold - dark, but rich colours, lips as red as blood, eyes stark but fiercely feminine.

While Greg was putting on his long black wig, he heard the storage area across from him opening and closing. He knew that the other small room had been converted to a dressing room as well, but as far as he knew, when he was performing, no one else used the space back here. 

Greg was alert but pushed back against the temptation to peek out.

It was a huge night for the club, their anniversary party - ten years and going strong. Damon had pulled performers from all his clubs, even from his original club in Paris. Greg imagined that he was probably putting girls wherever he could find the space. Greg just thanked god that Damon understood Greg and his need for privacy. The other regular performers in the club had always understood the arrangement. No one asked questions, no one pushed too hard. 

When Greg was finally done; makeup in place, black heels strapped on, hair and slinky black dress completing the picture, he came out, and slipped into the main hall. As he walked toward the main club, he instantly felt himself settle into Bellini’s strut, hips swinging wide and gracefully, no sign of the gruff DI that everyone was used to. 

If only NSY could see him now. 

Now, he was the strong flirty femme that could seduce you in a second or cut you just as quick. 

Greg made his way to the bar, giving a friendly flirty wave to the bartender, Allie. She raised her hand in return, before turning around to fix his drink of choice, a nice strong Manhattan. She set it on the bar and Greg picked it up with long, well-manicured nails.

He turned and sipped his drink, Bellini’s well-decorated eyes scanning the room. Though this life, with its bright lights and flashy costumes, was his first love, he still was and always would be a cop. He had had enough run-ins with people that meant this community harm, both as a one of its members and as the one trying to solve the crimes against them.

The crowd was huge, which Greg had expected with it being an anniversary party. Even though he loved the large crowds, he would always fear, with this many people around, that he would be recognized. Greg had recognized a few faces in the club over the years, and while there may have been an occasional quick glance of confusion, of _ almost _ recognition, his makeup and look appeared to disguise who he really was. Curious eyes would move on quickly enough. 

He let himself flirt and mingle, as he kept an eye on the other girls on the stage. He especially took interest in the performers from out of town. He couldn't travel to other clubs, because of his situation, so it was always amazing to be able to watch all the different talent, mixing so seamlessly with those he had known for years. 

Checking the time, Greg saw that he was up to perform soon, so he made his way through the crowd to run down to his dressing room for a quick touch-up on his makeup. As he reapplied his lipstick, he glanced at the set list taped to his mirror. He saw that one of the girls from the Paris club, Bijou Lemieux, was right after him. He had heard about her and her routines from some of the local girls who had travelled to their sister club, and was looking forward to seeing her perform.

One last dab of glitter along his eyes, and Greg left to head back out to the club. He glanced over at the other door in the hallway, curious who else was hiding out in the back hallway before heading to the backstage area. He went to his position, just as the last girl was finishing her set. The MC, Leela, came out on the stage, searched the sidelines and gave Greg a smile when she spotted him. 

“Thank you, Julia!! Everyone let’s give her another round of applause. Okay, everyone, get ready for our next performer! You know her, you love her… Please everyone, let’s welcome our very own feisty, fiery... Miss Bellini Rebellion!!!”

Greg heard the opening guitar riffs of his song, Take It Off by The Donnas, beating through the speakers. Oh, the music alone made him feel alive. As the music broke open, he came out on the stage, the drumming beat fueling him. 

He danced and swirled, captured their attention and their hearts. This is when Greg felt alive. This is when the world and all its troubles truly fell away. No Sherlock, no cases, no criminals. He was strong, confident, and sexy. He could have anyone he wanted, even the posh man that haunted his fantasies. 

He owned the stage; the world was his. Every man in that audience would swear Bellini danced for him. Greg’s heart raced, his blood screaming through his veins. He became Bellini, and she was a flirty one, all tease and seduction, but she danced for one man in her mind. 

When the song finished and the spot on Greg hard and bright, his chest rising and falling; he could only stand there, taking in the applause, trying to catch his breath. He bowed and blew a kiss to the crowd one final time, before turning stage left to exit while Leela called out for another round of applause. Greg headed straight to the bar for another drink that Allie already had waiting for him. He blew her a kiss and took his glass with a wink.

He thanked the people at the bar praising him, flitting Bellini’s teasing, flirty smile at them. He sank back into the darkness along the edge of the room, just to get a break from the attention for a moment. He heard Leela talking with the audience, before calling out the next performer.

“Everyone, next we have another of our lovely ladies from Paris. You really are in for a treat tonight!! For her first time here in London, please give a warm round of applause for Bijou Lemieux!!”

Greg smiled to himself, anxious to watch her perform. On stage, he saw a beautiful Queen standing on the stage, her back turned to the audience, the spot on her as she stood motionless, waiting for the song to start. Greg admired the curves of her dress – a long silver sleeveless number,glittering under the lights, a slit high up one side, giving way to the pale skin of her long legs. Her hair was beautiful and elegant – a strawberry blonde wig pinned in an intricate updo at the top of her head, a few wispy curls sweeping against her long neck. 

While he admired the view, Greg heard the beginnings of his favourite Queen song.

_ Tonight, I'm gonna have myself a real good time… _

As the song began, Bijou turned, hands sweeping up to rest on her hips, throwing her gaze across the audience. Her movements were soft and elegant, but her face was still turned away, for the moment only singing to the opposite side of the audience.

He watched as she sang, smiling. He loved this song, but it wasn’t one he heard as often, and he couldn’t recall ever seeing another Queen use it for a performance. While Greg was lost in thought, he raised his glass to take a sip of his drink. When she finally turned her attention to his side of the audience just as the music picked up, Greg paused, utterly entranced by the beauty of her face and her immaculately crafted makeup. She was breathtaking as she sang along to the song, her whole body alive with fluid sensual grace.

_ So don't stop me now, don't stop me _ _  
_ _ 'Cause I'm having a good time, having a good time _

Greg’s breath stuttered in his (well-padded) chest, and nearly choked on his drink. 

Because, under the beautiful makeup, Greg swore that she looked like …

But no… that’s impossible.

_ Maybe as impossible as a Detective Inspector spending his weekends as a drag queen too? _

But…

Mycroft?? 


	3. Chapter 3

Greg watched with wide eyes and breath hitched, trying to look past the makeup, the dress, and the oh-so-delicious curves underneath it. As the Queen on stage continued to perform, she turned and finally focused her attention on the other half of the audience.

Greg truly saw her eyes as she swept the crowd, pulling people into her performance.

And holy shit.

Yes, it was Mycroft. There was no mistaking those breathtaking eyes. For all the hours Greg had lost thinking about them, and the beautiful man they belonged to, he would know those eyes under any disguise.

Like him, Mycroft’s makeup did a remarkable job of masking who he was, but what amazed Greg even more than the change of his appearance, was how completely and totally the man’s whole persona was transformed. This was not the stiff, posh man who led the British Government with his brolly in constant tow. The Queen on that stage was pure brilliant joy, not the exasperated older brother constantly dealing with his cunning but petulant younger sibling. Gone was the indecipherable diplomat who spent his free time blending in at a stuffy club full of boring old white men of power, never speaking a word - replaced with an incandescent Queen who stood out, shining like a radiant diamond in a room filled with gorgeous people of every size, shape, colour and orientation.

Mycroft was his Queen - he was Bijou. She danced and played with the audience. She teased and toyed with fluid energy. She was elegant and poised, yet frisky and seductive. All at once she was carnal desire and cultured bliss.

This was the Mycroft of Greg’s fantasies. This was everything that he had ever wanted, ever dreamt about. This was the realization that the insane flights of fantasy he had had, alone at night with only his hand for company, were so very close to reality.

Greg knew the club well, not only from the time spent there performing, but from the thorough sweep he did when he started. (Again, he was a cop after all). He knew the layout, knew where all the exits were. He knew where crowds tended to congregate, and the hidden cubby-holes that you could tuck away when you wanted away from those crowds, for whatever reasons you needed. He also knew exactly where the lights landed in the audience. He knew where the line was, where from onstage, you went from seeing faces beaming up at you from the audience, to seeing shadowy figures moving around in the dark. So, Greg knew that where he was, standing at the bar, he was cloaked in darkness.

As the song continued, Greg was so entranced watching Mycroft perform, he didn’t notice himself moving closer to that line, drawn in by the beauty swirling around on the stage. The song sang of letting it all go, of having a good time, and Greg saw that was exactly what was happening on that stage. It was impossible not to be pulled into the joy coming off Mycroft in waves.

Greg shook himself, realizing that the song was at the last chorus, and that he found himself at the line in the lights. He knew that if he chose, he could stay right where he was, and Mycroft would never see him, never know he was there at all.

He stood in the darkness, knowing that if he took that step, that Mycroft would see. Greg held no delusions that Mycroft wouldn’t know him as soon as he saw his face. Sherlock’s deductions might be amazing, but it couldn’t hold a candle to Mycroft. The man was the smartest person in any room he entered; he missed nothing.

_Hell, maybe Mycroft already knows._

_So, there wouldn’t be any harm, right?_

Greg stood there at the line, and he was running out of time. He watched as Mycroft swung around the stage, the final chorus coming to its end. He chugged back the last of his Manhattan and stepped into the light.

As the song slowly ebbed away, Mycroft began his bows with his attention first to the other side of the audience before finally sweeping around to Greg’s. Mycroft lifted from a bow, bright, bold and beautiful.

His eyes swept the crowd, passing over Greg’s before quickly returning, locking eyes with him. Though his was the best poker face in town, confusion – then awareness – then surprise – then fear – then god only knew what, crossed Mycroft’s face. He straightened up, and let go of Greg’s stare, before heading offstage as quickly as his six-inch stilettos would allow him.

Greg shuffled quickly back to set his drink back down on the bar and ran through the crowd to get backstage. Enough people were in his way, stopping him, trying to talk, trying to flirt, that by the time he got behind the curtain, Mycroft was gone. Leela had just stepped back, having introduced the last performer of the night.

“Leela, the last girl? Where did she go?”

“Bijou? She went down to her dressing room.”

Greg started in the direction of the main dressing rooms when Leela stopped him. “No sweetheart, the other way; she has the room across from yours.” Greg grinned before he turned and headed the other way.

~~~

The hallway was quiet, far enough away from the stage and the crowd that the din of music and conversation were barely noticeable. As Greg turned the corner he saw that the other door was closed. He stopped to take a deep breath, closed his eyes, and prayed to God to give him strength, and that Leela had been right about Mycroft being in the other room.

His attempts to slow his breathing and heart were shattered when he heard a loud crash and muttered angry, “Fuck!”

His eyes flew open and though those words were never ones he had heard from Mycroft’s mouth before (in reality, at least. That word had been muttered frequently by him in Greg’s fantasies), he knew Mycroft’s voice. There was no doubt that he was here, that he had been the Queen on that stage. And now something was wrong. His hand was nearly on the doorknob before he could think, only just stopping from wrenching the door open.

Greg stopped, because though he was certain that Mycroft had seen him, he had no idea if he would be welcome, if Mycroft was embarrassed. He had watched the other man for so many years, pining, wishing he had the balls to talk to him about something more than his brother or some grisly shite crime scene. He knew that he’d have nothing to talk to him about. He had no clue if Mycroft would even want to talk to him

Greg knew that he was so far out of Mycroft’s league that he had no right to think that this would ever be wanted. He could barely keep up when the two Holmes’ started spitting at each other. Mycroft came from money, surely went to the best schools, had all the grandest things in life, was ridiculously successful in his career. What could Greg possibly offer to compare to that? He had been an average student at best, a punk kid with two younger sisters, raised by a single mother in a tiny flat that had a hinky radiator and always smelled of fried fish.

There was another, smaller, crash in the room, and that made up Greg’s mind. He gently knocked on the door. The shuffling in the room grew quiet, then a higher pitched voice with a slight French accent spoke, “Please, go away, I am fine.”

_Now or never, _Greg thought to himself.

“Hey,” No, that was Bellini's voice. He ratcheted it back down to his normal range, “It’s Greg. You ok in there?”

Quiet again. He could hear things being shifted around in the room; and in a hurry from what it sounded like, then again, Bijou’s voice, not Mycroft’s answered.

“Greg? Sorry, whoever you are, I assure you, I am quite alright, you may go now. Please.” There was a strained crack in that ‘please’ that broke Greg’s heart. Greg shook his head, and if he were a different man, he would not have heard that tiny waver in Mycroft’s voice. That waver that said just how scared Mycroft truly was.

With the calmest, most reassuring voice he had, the one he usually reserved for crime victims, or Sherlock when he was in a tiff, “Mycroft? Please, I know that’s you in there. I saw you. Onstage. I know you saw me. Please just open the door.” He leaned on the doorframe, one hand on the door, silently praying that Mycroft would answer.

The room went quiet, and for a long frightening moment, Greg was afraid that he was going to ignore his plea. Finally, he heard the door click, and slowly open.

Greg gently pushed the door open. The small room was in shambles, a bag open and things thrown hastily inside. He was quiet as he raised his eyes to see Mycroft sitting at a small table, his back turned to him. Greg could not bear to see his shoulders slumped as they were.

After an eternity of silence, Greg broke the tension, “That was a hell of a routine up there.”

“Please Gregory, do not patronize me. You know my secret now, what do you want?” he said sharply, still not turning around.

“Whoa, I don’t _want _anything. You huffed off stage so quick, I didn’t get a chance to, you know, say hi.”

“Hi? Just to say hello? Really Gregory. I’m sure you’ll be running to Sherlock as soon as you leave here, regaling the story of how lumpy, cake-loving Mycroft pulled on a silly dress and made a fool of himself. I wouldn’t be surprised if there were already pictures being passed amongst you.”

“Now wait just a minute, mate. One, I would never throw any fuel on whatever childhood squabble you two have had going on for the last twenty years. Secondly, what the hell kind of person do you think I am that I would ever ‘out’ someone like that? Sorry, I may not seem like the most culturally well-rounded human out there, but I’m not a fucking arsehole that would do that to someone.” Greg knew that particular pain. He prayed Mycroft would turn around and see he spoke the truth.

“And lastly, it would pretty fucking hypocritical of me to mock you for this, wouldn’t it?”

“And why is that?”

“Why what? You saw me out there.”

“Yes, of course,” Mycroft sighed, and even with his back turned, Greg could see the poor man slump a little in his seat, “Honestly, I only saw your face, your eyes - seeing me up there.. and I panicked.”

“Then you really didn’t get a good look. This is ridiculous,” he took a careful step into the small room, “Mycroft, will you please turn around?”

“Gregory, please, I would really rather not. Please just leave me.”

“Not until you turn around and look at me.”

“I can’t”

“Then I’m not leaving.” A small eternity passed, the ticking clock and muffled music from the club the only sound in the room. “Please.”

A sigh, a creak as the old chair started to turn. Greg saw that he had hastily washed his face; eyeliner still smudged on his lids. Even facing him, Mycroft would not lift his eyes to meet Greg’s.

“How does the smartest, most observant man in all of England miss _this_?”

Mycroft finally lifted his head and as his eyes slowly lifted, the surprise became more and more evident.

“Gregory? What?”

“May I introduce Bellini Rebellion, Punk Queen of Drag, at your service.” Greg bowed into a ridiculously low curtsey. When he came back up, he extended a hand to Mycroft, who raised his own, his movements slow, shock still written across his face.

Greg kissed the back of his hand, his lips lingering longer than necessary.

“Pleasure to meet you,” Mycroft spoke softly, his voice still carrying a hint of quiet surprise Greg had never heard before.

Gesturing to the hastily thrown together bag, Greg leaned back, “Listen, Mycroft, it looks like you were in a hurry to get out of here, and I’m guessing that was because of seeing me.”

“Yes, I confess, I may have panicked slightly, in case that was not obvious.”

“And that’s my fault, I shouldn’t have surprised you like that. I know you can get in a pretty focused headspace up there, at least I know I do, and something like this is gonna throw you off. I really am sorry.”

“No, please, you have nothing to apologize for.”

“Well, I’d still like to make it up to you. I know that right about now, I desperately need a drink and I wouldn’t be surprised if you do too. There’s a pretty decent little pub just a block or so away; quiet place and they have great whisky selection… My treat?”

“While a large tumbler of whisky sounds about perfect right now, I fear I am not quite in the mood for even a small crowd any longer.”

With every last speck of courage he had, Greg responded with words he had always wanted to say, “My flat’s not too far away, we could just go there, if you’d like.”

Greg wished he could read the expression on Mycroft’s face; was it fear, happiness, boredom?

“I would not wish to impose Gregory.”

“Mycroft, you could never be an imposition.”

Mycroft tucked his chin down briefly, but the smile he gave Greg when he finally looked up was the most beautiful thing the DI had ever seen.

“If you are sure, then I think I would like that, very much.”

“Good, great. Ok, umm.” Suddenly nervous as a litany of thoughts from the bottom of the less-civilized side of his brain flashed in his mind. Long had he dreamed of having Mycroft in his flat. Greg screamed for his brain to shut up, _He agreed to a drink. This does not mean anything, Greg!!_

“I just need to change and get cleaned up real quick,” he said as he pointed over his shoulder in the general direction of the door and his dressing room.

“Yes, as do I. I’m certain I did not do a very good job initially.” He turned to the mirror, “Oh lord yes, that certainly would not have done.” Mycroft laughed as he took a makeup wipe to attack the makeup still clinging to his eye. Greg met his gaze in the mirror and gave him a soft smile before turning to the door, heading over to his dressing room.

Once Greg was alone, he leaned his forehead against the door, taking a few heavy breaths to calm his heart. He wasn’t going to think about Mycroft coming to his flat; his tiny flat that would surely pale in comparison to anything that Mycroft was used to. He wasn’t going to think about how ridiculously beautiful the man was on stage. How he moved, how he melted into the music, playful, seductive and free.

Greg pulled his head off the door, shook himself to clear the tumbling thoughts in his head. He pulled off his wig, thankful the weight was off as he stretched his neck. The dress came off next, thrown quickly on to the hanger, and shoved onto the small clothes rack in the corner. Each piece of undergarment came off, the padding, the hosiery, everything that was tucked away was let loose, to Greg’s welcome relief.

After slipping on his most comfortable boxers, he went over to the sink and washed away the last of Bellini’s presence. He looked at himself in the mirror, cooling the thoughts in his head.

No matter his own feelings, he could put that all aside for Mycroft. Greg knew the pain of rejection. He knew that sting; when someone who should care tears apart something that is such an important part of your life. Mycroft was a man that kept everything so close, and he was allowing Greg to see even this slight moment of vulnerability.

Greg could be the friend that Mycroft deserved.

~~~

After Greg packed the last of his things into his bag, he grabbed his coat and took one last look around the tiny space, as if it held the answers to how he could manage himself with the man of his dreams in his flat. He sighed, then shut off the light and closed the door behind him. He steeled his nerve and knocked lightly on the door across from his.

“Hey, it’s me, I’m ready whenever you are,” he pulled back from the door, “No rush or anything.”

“Come in, Gregory, the door is open.”

One last fortifying breath, and Greg pushed the door open. He saw Mycroft, out of the dress and back in the rich grey trousers from earlier. Greg couldn’t help but stare as Mycroft leaned over his makeup table, shutting off the lights that circled the mirror, the material pulled tight over his arse. He wore only a soft-looking white button-up, sleeves rolled up over his arms, showing much more definition than Greg had known was there. Mycroft’s normal three piece was like a suit of armour, hiding so much of his body. Greg shook his head, trying to clear his mind. He stared intently at a lonely crack on the ceiling, before he heard Mycroft turn.

Greg gave him a shy warm smile. Mycroft seemed uncertain, but after a moment the corners of his mouth responded with a soft smile of his own.

“Well that should be everything.”

“My flat’s about a 5 minute drive from here. Mine’s at work, I could call us a cab though.”

“No need, my driver’s waiting for us. I mean... I mean he’s waiting for me. Not that he won’t drive both of us, of course.”

“Sounds great.” Greg said with a soft smile, a warm ball of joy spreading through him, at seeing Mycroft for once seemingly flustered.

They walked the back hallway toward the exit, Mycroft with his phone out. Greg assumed he was sending a message to his driver. They were both quiet, but it wasn’t an uncomfortable silence.

One couldn’t find someone with a shared secret as big as this without becoming more comfortable with each other, after all.

Right outside the door, Mycroft’s sleek black government car was already waiting for them. He opened the door for Greg, a tiny smile on his lips that Greg was certain he had never seen before but wished he could see every day.

The driver took off as soon as they were both in the car. Greg grinned, “I’d have given him an address, but I’m assuming you gave it to him already, huh?”

“My apologies,” the brief flush on Mycroft’s face was adorable, “I meant no assumptions.”

“No, it’s fine. I figured you had the complete background workup done on me as soon as I started talking to Sherlock.”

“Well, yes. I hope not to offend you, I did not assume any wrongdoing, or ill-intent, but well, you know Sherlock.”

“Yeah, and I know you. As much as you two snip at each other, I know you love him. I can’t imagine how long you’ve just been trying to protect him” Mycroft smiled and dropped his eyes.

“A very long time,” he said with a sigh, “Mostly from himself. Although, thankfully, John has relieved me of most of that burden.”

“So, you have more free time now, it would seem.”

“Well, yes, a bit.”

“Seems like a good time to find better ways to occupy yourself.”

Mycroft met his eye, and the two shared a look that reignited the fire in Greg’s belly he had tried very hard to bank.

Before either man could speak they felt the car slowing down to a stop. The driver’s voice broke the moment, announcing their arrival.

They left the car, Greg suddenly ridiculously nervous. He knew his flat wasn’t much. It was small, comfortable to him, but he knew it would be paltry to the man that virtually ran the British government; who could have any luxury he wanted at a single word.

One short flight of stairs and they were at his flat. Greg turned to Mycroft before opening the door. “Sorry, it’s not much, and I wasn’t exactly expecting company, so I am very sorry for the mess.” He said, thinking about the socks he remembered were sitting in front of the sofa. (He knew it was a terrible habit, but he always preferred being barefoot in his own flat, and usually no one was there to fuss at him for it.)

Mycroft smiled, “I’m sure it’s perfect, Gregory.”

Greg answered with his own shy smile, opening the door and gesturing for Mycroft to go in.

“Can I take your coat?” He asked as he kicked his shoes off. Mycroft removed his coat, handing it over. Greg saw a smirk on his face when he turned. Mycroft nodded to Greg wiggling his toes in the carpet. “Hey, I don’t know about you, but my feet are killing me after wearing those heels. I have been dreaming of being barefoot for hours now.”

“I never thought I would appreciate loafers as much as I do until I started doing this,” Mycroft said with a laugh. “You wouldn’t mind?” he said as he looked down at his own feet.

“No, please, get comfortable. I barely wear shoes when I’m home.” He reminded himself of the socks by the sofa. He detoured on his way to the kitchen to kick the stragglers out of sight, trying to cover his movements by turning on music - one of the jazz stations he listened to on his easy nights.

“So, you still up for that whiskey?”

“Yes, please.”

“Have a seat, make yourself at home. I mean, get comfy, yeah.”

He turned before the other man could see the blush he knew had to be spreading across his face.

In the kitchen, he grabbed the best bottle he had (He knew it wasn’t much, just something nicer he had been saving for special occasions, and this was a very special occasion indeed) and two glasses from the cupboard. He popped his head into the sitting room, to see Mycroft looking at his phone.

“Hey, do you take yours straight or on the rocks?”

“On the rocks, please. Not much straight about me, as they say,” he said with a quiet laugh before a slight look of panic ran across his face.

“Me neither, I guess,” Greg replied before he could stop himself. The two men locked eyes, a moment raw and open; as if saying it aloud made it so much more real. Greg felt the corner of his mouth tick up in a grin he couldn’t stop. He saw Mycroft’s face relax, a small smile creeping onto his face.

He poured the drinks before joining Mycroft on the sofa, bringing the bottle with him, setting it on the coffee table in front of them. Greg had spent years holding back how he felt about the other man. He would never push anything, but at that moment he felt more comfortable than he had in a very long time, like he didn’t have to hide in front of Mycroft.

“So, let’s get it out of the way.”

“What’s that?”

Greg turned towards him, tucked one leg under himself, one arm draped over the back of the sofa, “Hmm, how, why, how long, and how the hell did you get so good?”

Greg was proud of the pink he watched colour Mycroft’s cheek and the smile that lifted at the corner of his mouth. He watched over the rim of his glass as Mycroft huffed a soft chuckle.

“No seriously, how… Just how?”

“It’s not that interesting really. I wasn’t exactly the most social at university, as I’m sure you can imagine. I preferred the company of my textbooks and studies to that of my rather immature classmates.” Mycroft took a hearty mouthful of his drink; Greg unable to take his eyes off his long neck as he swallowed. “My mother reminded me of the benefits of ‘networking,’ considering many of these boys were from very influential families.”

“Let me guess, knew you’d be going into a ‘minor government’ role early on?”

“It was always my goal, as soon as I understood it was a career option.”

“You were a manipulative kid, weren’t you?” Greg joked, leaning towards Mycroft slightly. The whiskey warmed his belly and loosened his nerve.

“Had I any other parents other than my own, perhaps I could have been. Alas, this genius runs in the family; I couldn't get anything past them.”

“I know, I met your brother. One kid like you could be sheer luck, but two means it came from somewhere.”

“Yes, well, I would rather not be thinking of my dear brother at the moment.”

Greg gestured for him to continue.

“Well, the next time my classmates extended an invitation, I begrudgingly accepted. Since stuffy old Mycroft finally decided to fraternize with others, they resolved to make the night as scandalous as possible. So, they took me to a local drag show, at what they deemed as one of the seedier clubs near campus. What they didn’t know is when they brought me to that bar, it woke something in me I never knew existed. Seeing what these performers were capable of was unbelievable. From that point, I learned all I could, snuck out of the dorms to watch shows, until finally they took me on and taught me all I know.”

“If you’ve been doing this for so long, how is it that we’ve never run across each other before?”

“I haven’t performed in London in a very long time. Gregory, you would be absolutely amazed at the prominent members of society that find themselves in the types of bars that we perform in. If any were to recognize me, my career would be over. I only ever usually perform in Damon’s club in Paris, and even now, maybe only once every month or two.”

“So, how’d he manage to get you over here tonight?”

“Tonight was a very special favour to Damon. They have been amazing, accommodating my need to perform under the secrecy as I do. When they asked if I would consider coming here for the anniversary, I couldn’t in good conscience say no.”

“I understand. They’ve done the same for me. Not easy, being a copper by day, a Queen by night, but they found a way to pull it off.”

“Yes, Damon said that the back dressing rooms were designed for someone in a similar position to mine, and yet they refused to say who. That’s why I trusted them. Even considering my position, they refused to betray the trust put in them by someone else. Therefore, I trusted they would not betray me either. They are only one of two people… Well, three now, really, who know this about me.”

“Anthea?”

“Yes, of course Anthea,” he said with a laugh as Greg refilled his glass. As Greg started to place the bottle back on the coffee table, a sudden thought interrupted his movement.

He looked back, “Mycroft, I have a question.”

Mycroft leaned forward, “Of course, Gregory.”

“I’m assuming that Anthea receives regular updates on everything she does for you, right?”

“Yes, of course.”

“So, if she were to order one of your ominous government cars to drive someone somewhere?”

“She would… Oh my god! That woman!”

“She knew where I was dropped off, didn’t she?”

“Yes, she most certainly did. She would have gotten an alert as soon as the address was input into the GPS. And she most certainly did not tell me.”

“So, you didn’t know? Really? Had no idea?”

“No, and believe me, she will be getting a very stern talking to about this.”

“Hey, it hasn’t been all bad, right? I’d like to think it worked out pretty well.”

“No. It certainly hasn’t. This has been the best possible way that my ‘side-project’ could have been discovered.”

The two men looked at each other; Greg hoping that the small flair of hope he could feel roll in his gut was not being fueled by misguided hope.

“You really were amazing up there. No one would ever be able to tell that Mycroft and Bijou were one and the same. Makeup and costume aside, you were a whole other person on that stage. That complete a transformation is rare, even with the talent I’ve seen out there.”

Mycroft slowly lowered his glass and raised his eyes to meet Greg’s. “You could tell,” he said shyly.

“Yeah, well…” his smile hopefully letting Mycroft know what Greg didn’t have the words to say.

He swallowed slowly, deciding he needed another glass to occupy his nervous hands. Greg yearned to reach for Mycroft (when had they gotten so close on the couch?), but he refused to do anything to spook the vulnerable man next to him.

Their drinks filled, he leaned back, wiggling a bit to get comfortable, “It’s no surprise that you picked a Queen song, but I would’ve expected you to pick Killer Queen.”

“I can see why you would think that,” Mycroft replied with a chuckle, “And yes, I am quite fond of that song, but Don’t Stop Me Now has always been one of my favorites. It’s so bright, so unapologetic, and performing it… Well, I get to be silly, light-hearted.” He set his empty glass on the coffee table and turned towards Greg. “That song lets me play. I play much too infrequently, Gregory.”

Greg set his drink down next to Mycroft’s, the look in the other man’s eye flaring the hope in his gut to roaring life.

He took Mycroft’s hand, “That isn’t right, Myc.” He wanted nothing more than for the beautiful man in front of him to be happy, to be free to be himself, “I would like to work very hard at changing that.” He leaned in, his free hand nudging Mycroft’s chin so that he would look up and meet his eyes.

When he did, Greg poured everything into that moment, praying that Mycroft would understand. His eyes widened as if the lightbulb went off; finally seeing what Greg was really saying, what he really felt. A quick tilt of his head as his brain worked through it.

Finally, he drew a quick drawn breath, and flashed the most brilliant smile Greg had ever seen

“Oh Lord yes, Gregory.”

Mycroft surged forward, tilting his head and capturing Greg’s lips in a sweet yet urgent kiss.

Greg met Mycroft’s passion, not letting his brain stutter with the thought that the man of his dreams was kissing him. He let his hands wander to Mycroft’s long beautiful neck, thumbs grazing his cheeks as they shared the moment. He scraped his nails along the back of his neck to tangle with his hair. When Mycroft moaned slightly, Greg took the opportunity to tease his lips open with a flick of his tongue.

Mycroft opened his lips easily, allowing Greg entrance. Their tongues met and Greg felt heat rising in him like he hadn't felt in ages. With the urgency of a younger man, he pushed back, guiding Mycroft back on the arm of the couch. Greg’s hands fell next to his face, caging in the other man.

Mycroft's hands fell to Greg’s hips, already pulling up at his shirt. Greg gasped when he felt warm hands on his back, slowly digging into his flesh. His head dropped forward, a shiver of arousal racing through him. He looked back up at Mycroft’s beautiful face, his eyes just as dark with desire as Greg was certain his were.

Greg leaned down to Mycroft, capturing his mouth again, the kiss even more urgent. He sucked at the other man’s lower lip, biting only enough to tease. He felt his own hands wandering down the soft rich material of Mycroft’s shirt, rumpled far worse than Greg thought possible. Their tongues met, and Greg let his weight settle, not stopping his body's desire to grind against Mycroft.

Though he had dreamed of having Mycroft in his arms a hundred times over, he never imagined that the posh, beautiful man of his dreams would ever be this responsive, this alive in his arms. The moan he felt as he licked at Mycroft’s neck was made of pure heat which resonated in every part of him. He felt Mycroft’s long leg come up from the side of the couch to wrap around him, the movement making it evident that the other man’s cock was as hard as his own.

With great effort, Greg pulled away, took a few deep breaths, never taking his eyes away from Mycroft’s. “You have no idea how long I have dreamt of this.”

“I most assuredly do, Gregory,” Mycroft rutted slowly up against him to prove his point.

Greg dipped his head to kiss along Mycroft’s neck, to bite lightly on his ear, before whispering low, “Do you want, maybe... to take this to the bedroom?”

“Yes, please,” Mycroft answered with a whimper.

Greg pulled himself up with all the strength of will he had, grinning like a madman, proud of the impressive tenting in the other man’s trousers.

_I did that. I gave the British Government a hard-on. _Greg couldn’t help the giggle that escaped his lips.

With a tick of his eyebrow, Mycroft looked up at him, “What is it?”

“Just, I could never have guessed this is how my day would go.” He swooped down, giving Mycroft a passionate but entirely too quick kiss before standing and offering his hand to Mycroft.

With Mycroft in his arms again, he continued kissing him, leading him backwards down the hallway to the bedroom. Greg pressed him hard against the door, each man grinding against the other, seeking even a small relief from their aching need. Greg finally let the other man go long enough to reach around to open the door, and let Mycroft turn to navigate inside the room.

Greg watched as Mycroft sat on the end of the bed, glancing around, before turning his attention back to him. Greg couldn’t help the embarrassment he felt at the state of his bedroom, the dirty clothes around the hamper, the unmade bed. He knew Mycroft could read everything about him from this room - “God, I’m sorry, Mycroft, like I said, I’d never thought of where tonight would lead, the room's usually much cleaner… I mean, most of the time it is. I’m sorry, just...you deserve better than this.” He gestured to the clutter.

“I don’t care about the state of your room, Gregory, but I assure you, it is perfect.”

Greg couldn’t help the shy smile spread across his face, “You sure about that?”

“Considering that my decision-making skills have saved western civilization on multiple occasions, I would say that you can trust my judgement. Now please, Gregory, come here.” Mycroft slid his hands back across the bed, leaning back, spreading his long legs in invitation.

Greg’s head dropped, eyes closed as he took a deep breath to calm himself. He wanted to treat Mycroft right, not jump on him like a feral animal. Considering the effect that seeing him spread out on his bed like this was having, it would be a very real possibility if he didn’t concentrate.

He looked up and met Mycroft’s eyes. Greg licked his lips and slowly made his way to the bed, hungry gaze never leaving the other man’s.

Mycroft’s smirked, knowing the effect he was having on him. Greg met him at the end of the bed, wedging himself between Mycroft’s legs. He reached down, ran his hands up Mycroft’s neck to tangle in his hair. He pulled Mycroft’s head back, eliciting a sharp gasp as Greg lavished his exposed neck with scorching kisses. He nipped and teased, Mycroft’s chest rising in quiet gasps underneath him.

Mycroft fell back with Greg following, his weight settling into him so comfortably, so naturally. They both shuffled up the bed, their lengths teasing against each other as they shifted. Greg laid on his side, head propped on his arm, leg across Mycroft’s. He leaned to take his mouth in another deep kiss, and slowly began to run his fingers down the side of Mycroft’s neck. His fingertips teased along his collarbone, until he met the top button of his shirt, and with a grin on his lips through the kiss, he slowly started to undo each down the line. He let his fingers trail down Mycroft’s chest after each one, a shiver running through Mycroft from the contact. Greg pulled back to look into the other man’s eyes.

Greg swept the shirt down Mycroft’s shoulders, until Mycroft took it off, throwing it to the side. He ran his fingers along the hem of Greg’s vest collar, “Your turn,” his voice low. Greg pulled his shirt over his head, before pushing Mycroft back on the bed. As he fell back Greg followed, trailing kisses down his pale gorgeous skin. He nipped at his nipples, licking the soft peaks, spurred on by the soft moans coming from under him.

Mycroft gripped at Greg’s hair as he kissed down his chest, his stomach, then as his mouth swept across the top of his trousers. He reached up, caressing Mycroft’s sides, curling his fingers to let his short nails drag down, until an unmistakable giggle came from above him.

Greg peeked his head up, a raised eyebrow and smirk directed at the other man, “Ticklish?”

“Never,” Mycroft said with an indignant huff, gripping his arms above his head.

“Of course not,” Greg dragged his nails down again, this time slightly harder, leaving faint red lines down Mycroft’s pail skin. The deep moan coming from the man beneath him was the most beautiful sound Greg had ever heard.

His fingers crept down to the top of trousers, before flicking it open.

“Oh god yes, please, Gregory.”

“What is it, love?” Greg palmed at the front of his trousers, his breath stuttering as he felt the hard outline of Mycroft’s cock through the thin layers of material.

“I need, please, I need…”

“This?” Greg replied as he slowly pulled down the zipper, teasing at his cock with his finger, sliding the material apart, one less layer between them.

“Yes, please…”

Greg knelt back, his broad hands running down Mycroft’s body again, before leaning over, reaching the top of Mycroft's trousers. Slowly his fingers pulled the material of trousers and pants down together. In a slow, agonizing tease he ran his fingers under both, before reaching under Mycroft, the other man’s hips raising by instinct. Greg gripped possessively, dipping under his pants to palm at the round arse under him. He let a finger tease up the sweet valley of Mycroft crevice, before grabbing the hems of pants and trousers both, pulling down with a force he could no longer hold back.

Pulling Mycroft’s legs up, he dragged them off together, keeping his eyes locked with Mycroft's as long as he could. Mycroft’s legs fell around him, wide and inviting as Greg chucked the clothes onto the floor. Greg’s eyes then immediately fell to his cock, hard and proud, as it fell back with a soft slap on Mycroft’s stomach. Like the man of his fantasies beneath him, it rose tall and magnificent; uncut, red with want.

“God, you are fucking gorgeous.” Greg hands ran up Mycroft’s thighs, his fingers digging into the soft flesh of his thighs. Caressing his warm pale skin, thumbs riding in the soft crease where thighs met body, teasing; relishing the way Mycroft’s cock twitched with anticipation, his back arching up from the bed.

“You are a menace, Gregory. An absolute menace.”

“Around you?” He said with a smirk, “You bet your arse.” Greg fell over Mycroft, caging his arm around his head. Their lips crashed together again, tongues meeting with renewed abandon. Greg let his weight settle, laying on his forearm, so he could reach down to wrap a hand around Mycroft’s cock. Greg relished the feel, that of silk on steel; he gripped and slowly pumped, feeling rather than hearing the growl coming from Mycroft.

He pulled back from their kiss to watch Mycroft slowly coming apart beneath him, eyes closed; Greg cherished the moment. With each slow pull, Mycroft rolled his hips. Greg’s trousers felt tighter with each passing second seeing what he could do to this man. He was the hardest he had ever been in his life, but he spared no thought for himself, so enraptured he was by the pleasure on Mycroft’s face.

As he ran his thumb over the tip of Mycroft’s cock, the stuttering broken gasp made Greg pause, unable to stop the look of adoration he knew fell across his face. His hand was still wrapped around Mycroft’s length as the other man slowly opened his eyes, his pupils blown with lust.

Mycroft’s arms slowly came up to pull at Greg’s hips, his fingers teasing around the waistband of his trousers, “Good Sir, you have me at a disadvantage.”

“Can’t imagine you like that.” Greg sat up, and only just managed to unbutton his trousers, when Mycroft sat up and with a solid strength that left Greg whimpering, Mycroft flipped them, leaving himself straddling the DI.

“Please, allow me.” He winked as he tugged the zip down. Greg sat back, breathing deep. He couldn’t keep his eyes off the gorgeous man above him. Mycroft slowly fell to his side long fingers sweeping Greg's trousers down and off.

Mycroft palmed at his cock through his pants, kissing his way down Greg’s stomach. He met the tenting material with a grin, leaning down to nose against the outline of his erection. Greg felt him breathe in deeply, then exhale hot and humid, with a moan so deep, Greg could feel it ripple through him. The moment was so beautifully obscene that it sparked a hot rush of lust which traveled directly to his already aching length. As his eyes fell closed, he felt Mycroft’s tongue lap at the tip through the material.

Greg fought with himself not to thrust up, the sensation so maddening; too much, yet not nearly enough. Mycroft seemed to sense his need, pulling the front of Greg's pants down, letting his cock spring free. Greg hissed as he watched Mycroft’s lips wrap around his length. Mycroft’s tongue worked the tip and his head fell back, he was unable to watch any more.

He felt Mycroft work his way further down his cock, the glorious heat of his mouth, his tongue, working along the underside of his shaft. Mycroft’s hands pulled at the elastic, and Greg raised his hips, careful in his movements, as Mycroft pulled them down, his lips still wrapped sinfully around his aching cock.

His mouth released Greg’s cock with an indecent pop. With a wicked grin, Mycroft pulled Greg’s pants down the rest of the way, his hands caressing the detective’s legs as he crawled back up the bed.

Greg watched, unable to believe that the moment he had dreamt of, fantasized about for years, was truly happening. Mycroft straddled Greg’s thighs, lowering down to take his mouth in another searing kiss. Greg reached down, fingers digging into the flesh of Mycroft’s arse to pull his body even closer. As he did, the men’s naked erections met, each unable to hold back any longer, rutting against the other, slow deliberate movements that drove the heat between them even further, both gasping at the contact.

Mycroft slid down, kissing along Greg’s jaw, before nibbling at the spot behind his ear that drove him mad. Greg reached down between them, wrapping his hand around Mycroft’s cock. He felt Mycroft stutter, his head falling to the crook of Greg's neck. After a moment of Greg slowly pulling on his length, with Mycroft's breath hitching faster, short, sweet grunts of pleasure falling from his lips, he finally pulled up to look into Greg’s eyes

“Gregory… ahh... please, please I need you. I need to feel you inside me.”

Greg met those beautiful dark eyes with a smile, as he slid one hand through his hair, while the other still slowly worked his cock.

“God yes.” He let go and slowly, tenderly rolled them. He sat back on his heels and ran his hands down Mycroft’s chest, trailing his fingers down his belly. He heard a quiet giggle from the other man, and he looked at him with a raised eyebrow and quirk of his lips. Mycroft shyly smiled back. Greg leaned down to lay tender kisses to his sensitive inner thigh, before reaching over to the drawer of his nightstand, taking out a condom and lube.

“My, my, Gregory, aren’t we prepared?”

Greg smiled, “Not like you think. I was hopeful after the divorce, but nothing ever came of it.”

“Can’t think how that’s possible, you are a beautiful man.”

Greg blushed, “Maybe I was just waiting for the right person to make it into my bed.”

He bent down to kiss Mycroft again, managing to flick the top of the lube open one handed. He rose up, shuffling back slightly, taking in the sight of Mycroft, spread out before him. He slicked his fingers before reaching down to the puckered furl of Mycroft’s arse.

He could feel the muscle quiver as his fingers gently swirled around Mycroft’s opening. His thumb slowly massaged his perineum, while he let his finger be pulled into the heat of Mycroft’s arse. He slowly rocked his fingers in deeper, the desperate sounds from the man below him spurring him on. He pulled out, before pushing again further, slowly fucking the man with his finger. He wanted to make Mycroft feel good, his own aching need put to the back of his mind. He couldn’t think of the heat surrounding his finger, or how desperately he wanted to plunge his cock into that heat.

He pulled out again; a second finger breaching Mycroft on the next thrust of his hand. As Mycroft’s soft grunts turned headier, Greg began moving his hand faster, scissoring his fingers to open up his lover.

“Gregory, please… I can’t … I need you.”

“Are you sure, are you ready?”

“I want your cock to do the rest. Please, you won’t break me. I want to feel you stretch me. I want to feel it all.” He peered up at Greg with a look so hot and desperate, it nearly broke him.

Greg didn’t think he could have been more turned on, but god, those words went straight to his cock. Mycroft, so proper, so posh, using such scandalous words. He was certain that this was his new fetish. Without allowing his fingers to leave Mycroft, he dropped his eyes, and let out a slow steady breath to calm himself.

Without another word, he reached over to grab the condom with one hand. His eyes never left Mycroft’s as he ripped the package open with his teeth, still working his opening with his other hand. He finally pulled his fingers out to roll the condom on. Mycroft’s heavy breathing and lust-filled eyes giving him the fortitude he needed to keep from coming from his own touch as he spread more lube over his aching cock.

He grabbed Mycroft’s hips, pulling him down roughly to meet his own. He spread his legs further apart, slowly lowering himself down, to take another long deep kiss from the other man. He sat back up, held onto the base of his cock, guiding it to Mycroft’s entrance.

Pushing slowly, he felt the head of his cock breach Mycroft’s hole. The sensation was so strong, so heady; better than anything he had felt before or imagined in any of his wildest fantasies. Each man stuttered a breath, eyes locked as they let the sensation wash over them.

Greg slowly began rocking his hips, fortified by the short gasping breaths leaving Mycroft’s mouth, allowing him to push deeper with each thrust. Mycroft threw his head back, his hands fisted into the sheets. When Greg bottomed out, he held his position, patient as he could feel as Mycroft's body slowly relaxing around him, his muscles fluttering, opening for him.

Mycroft finally raised his head back up to look at Greg, his eyes blown wide with pleasure. He slowly rolled his hips, “God, you feel so good.” His words were breathy, barely a whisper. He moved his hips again before reaching up to drag Greg down for a heated, messy, perfect kiss.

Greg reached back, to bring Mycroft’s hips further up, the other man lifting his legs instinctively around Greg’s back. Greg took Mycroft’s hands, twining their fingers together above Mycroft’s head. He slowly thrust in and out, relishing the feel of Mycroft around him. He kept a slow, deliberate rhythm; a steady push and pull to open the man under him.

He knew that burn, that stretch; he knew the discomfort of an inconsiderate lover, and he would not do that Mycroft. He also knew that, in the hands of someone good - that stretch, that drag, as you opened could give immeasurable pleasure.

Mycroft gripped his hands tightly, his posh mouth letting out a steady stream of delicious moans as Greg kissed along his long neck. As Greg started to speed his thrusts, changing the angle slightly, a guttural cry flew from Mycroft’s lips. Greg smiled into his kiss, placing a final nip at Mycroft’s neck before letting his hands go, pushing himself up on his elbows to look at the beautiful man he felt all around him.

Mycroft looked up at him, nodding slightly, eyes dark with lust. Greg felt him tighten his legs around his back, urging him on; the need to get closer understood between them. Greg raised up and began to fuck him in earnest, pistoning himself harder and harder, holding onto Mycroft’s hips. Mycroft reached up, gripped the headboard and pushed back against the drilling his arse was getting.

He grunted his pleasure and began to reach for his aching cock which bounced shamelessly between them. Greg swatted his hand away, wrapping his own around Mycroft’s length. He stroked in time to his own merciless rhythm.

He felt a shiver run through Mycroft and his bollocks began to draw up. He leaned over, no stutter to either his hand or his hips.

“Come for me.”

“Oh god!” Mycroft practically howled into the room. Greg felt the warm liquid heat of his release on his hand, spread now between their sweaty bodies. He slowed slightly, but Mycroft looked up at him, fingers clawing desperately into his back, “No, don’t stop, please. Take it Greg, take what you need. Oh god, please.”

Greg pulled back without hesitation, and slammed his body into Mycroft’s, his instincts taking over, without restraint, allowing himself to chase his own pleasure. He had held so much back, so focused on Mycroft, he knew he would not last long.

Only a few hard thrusts later, he slammed home one final time, pushing into Mycroft as he pulsed into the condom, vision white on the edges as he came.

Both men were breathless as they came down from the highs. Greg slowly lowered himself down and carefully pulled out. He tenderly kissed Mycroft and with what little strength he had, rolled over to pull off the condom and throw it in the bin next to the bed.

He rolled back to Mycroft, who was spread on the bed, having barely moved, a ridiculous grin on his face as he lay there. Greg threw his leg over Mycroft’s and reached to cup his face in his hands, one finger slowly tracing down his ear to his jaw, to fit under his chin to turn his face towards him. Greg kissed him, sweet and slow, before nudging his nose along Mycroft’s.

“I’ll be right back. Nipping to the loo.”

A contented “Mmmhmm…” was all he got in return. A smile, another kiss and Greg got up to head to the bathroom. He left the lights off, not needing them to turn the taps on and grab a flannel from the closet. There was enough light from the street that he could see his way around and when he looked up, he could see a thoroughly fucked man smiling back at him from the mirror.

When he returned to the bedroom, he could only stop in the doorway to smile in awe at the sight of Mycroft in his bed.

“What are you smiling at?” Mycroft grinned, one eye peeked open.

“Just the beautiful man dozing off in my bed.”

He walked over, showering Mycroft in kisses as he wiped him down. He threw the flannel to the hamper as he came round the bed. Greg pulled the duvet over the two of them and curled his body around Mycroft. He kissed the back of Mycroft’s neck as the other man took his hand, curling it into his chest.

A contented exhaustion hit him. It was more than just the amazing sex they had just had. In this moment with Mycroft, he felt seen, felt known. He felt he had come home.

“Myc?”

“Yes Gregory?” he said in a sleepy, happy tone.

“I…” He was suddenly lost for words. How could he tell this beautiful, ridiculously intelligent, important man exactly how he felt? That what they had just done was so much more than sex to him? That this wasn’t - no, couldn't be - just be a one-night stand? That Greg had fallen for him ages ago, and that this moment was better than any of the ridiculous fantasies that his tormented brain had plagued him with for years? How could he ask for what he wanted? How could he tell him that after one night he knew that he wanted to spend the rest of his life with this man curled in his arms, whenever possible? He wanted to wake up with him every morning they could, wrapped around each other.

“I…”

Mycroft rolled over enough to face Greg, one finger touching his lips lightly before he barely whispered his lips over his own. “Shush, dear. I know. I want it all too.” He kissed Greg once more, then rolled over, pulling Greg’s arm around him close once again.

Greg simply smiled and kissed his neck again, before sleep, and the promise of a future filled with love, took him under.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here we are! We've made it to the end! Thank you all for joining me on this journey into Mystrade! I have had so much fun!
> 
> Again, my eternal thanks to [Bookjunkiecat](https://archiveofourown.org/users/bookjunkiecat) for being the most fantastic beta that a girl could ask for! You've been just the kind of cheerleader that I needed!!
> 
> As always, drop me a line, I love your comments!! 
> 
> Don't hesitate to find me on Twitter!  
[Pufflelock](https://twitter.com/PuffleLock)


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